The Serpent of the South
by en extase
Summary: Unceremoniously cast into Middle-Earth, Harry becomes the Serpent Lord of Harad. Under his guidance, the realm becomes the power of the south. He receives a beautifully crafted ring from a courier of Sauron... and it is precious to him. DISCONTINUED.
1. Shattering the Mirror

**The Serpent of the South  
By **Melnivone_  
_**A Harry Potter **&** Lord of the Rings Crossover**

* * *

**S**olving the following conundrum will unravel the terrible secret of the universe.

You're a child, marked by lightning. You were never ordinary, and scarcely the moment after you turned eleven you discovered why. Magic rushed through your veins, and another world laid claim to you. You did not contest this claim - the idea of being _historic_ fascinated you at first. You owe your relatives your humbleness, if nothing else. Your upbringing ensured you never became arrogant. The scrutiny of your peers, the international attention, all this quickly became unwanted.

Yet, you cannot help but think the hero worship justified by your deeds.

A touch of your fingers reduced a fully grown wizard to ash, despite being host of the Darkest Lord to ever mar the pages of history, or perhaps because of it. The next year, you slew an enormous serpent that could kill with its mere gaze.

You achieved that victory with the indispensable aid of a flaming bird. A phoenix, immortal, the ultimate icon of the Light. It blinded the Basilisk, rendering it's gaze harmless, and delivered you a magnificent sword with which you dealt the deathblow.

You like this sword, spent a moment blissfully unaware of the dire peril threatening your life, and studied it. Rubies are encrusted into the hilt, and the blade shone of purest silver. It happened to be the heirloom of the legendary Godric Gryffindor, and you were his heir, as you later discovered. You allowed the sword to be taken from you docilely, but it was never far from your thoughts.

Fast forward another four years. This sword falls into your possession after its owner died and named you its new master. It has spilt gallons of blood, has torn the stomachs of countless Death Eaters, leaving a trail of destruction and death in its wake.

You are no longer a child, but the lightning mark adorning your forehead hasn't faded. The last vestiges of your unhappy childhood were swept away when your freckled, flame-haired friend, your best mate as it were, became the sword's next victim. Let's say that, for some very solid reasons, you decapitate him, overcome in your rage and grief.

The sword breaks, shattering upon the stone behind where his head used to be. You had a theory; the sword, an instrument of the light, could no longer channel the darkness festering in your soul, the darkness spawned by your best friend's rapid turnabout.

You like this sword, spent a moment staring numbly at the bloodstained shards of the goblin-crafted weapon. The hilt is precious to you. it is still magnificent, and so you leave the cursed remains of the blade behind, and head over to the swordsmith down the alley.

You return to take it in a month. The sword is heavier at your side; the new steel blade has been tempered in the hottest forge in the world, crafted with extraordinary skill and precision, but could not compare to its predecessor. For all the reputation of its crafter, the human art had always been inferior to that of the goblins. When you return to your reclusive abode, you encounter a monstrosity that resembles a crossbred manticore and hippogriff.

A Mangriff.

So you unsheathe your reliable sword, and behead it. However, in the up-stroke, the blade cleaves its dangerous heart, and shatters in a spray of steel slivers.

This means another excursion to Vulcan's Forge. As soon as you return home with your newly-bladed sword though, you meet the reanimated body of your beheaded friend, reeking of Necromancy. His head has been reattached, and it is wearing the resentful expression reading "Hey! You killed me last month!" that is so rarely encountered in life.

You brandish your sword threateningly, and his eyes, rotting and no longer holding the warmth that used to bring confidence to you, bulge madly.

He screams.

"That's the same sword that slayed me!"

Is he right?

* * *

**Chapter I: **Shattering the Mirror

* * *

**T**he heart's fixations change with the passage of time.

Old longings become forgotten. **  
**New longings develop in their place.

Some of them are inevitable, and thus are predictable.

The orphan wants to see his parents, for example. It acts as a driving force, but diminishes once childhood ends and adulthood begins. Hardship dulled even the most heartfelt desire.

Eleven years since his introduction to the world of magic, Harry Potter had seen them. Lily and James. His parents and the rest of the deceased Potter family . The mere sight of them, however illusory it was, enchanted their descendant, who would sit in front of the mirror for hours on end, content to bask in the warmth of their gazes.

So life-like, affecting sympathy for him. **  
**So_ united_, generations of the family residing beyond that layer of glass forever beyond his reach.

It was not until years later that he came across that miraculous mirror again, deep within the bottommost level of the Ministry. He was given the highest-level security clearance, in his capacity as a pivotal figure in the Second Wizarding War.

He no longer saw their beloved faces. Only embers remained of that once burning yearning.

And why not?

Every child grew up. **  
**Every parent wanted to see their child happy.

It was for the best, if they never saw what became of the world they'd entrusted to their son.

Still, the mirror was beautiful.

The golden, ornate frame of the mirror was unrivaled in craftsmanship, every detail carved with precision. The glass was luminous, a rippling mass of silver.

Until he looked into it.

The scene unfolding before him was like a glimpse into another world. The topography of the landscape was uneven. A watchtower overlooked a wide, weather-beaten road. At the top of the hill was a plateau surrounded by a ring of stones. There was a path beginning from the top northward that led into the hills in the background. The sun was beginning to set, and the shadows were growing menacingly. He kept his gaze fixed on the mirror as the door opened to admit the head of the Unspeakables, Croaker. The shady operative was now the only veteran of the first war still fighting in the second fall. Harry had only a limited interaction with his superior, but had long since decided that Croaker stood the best chance of anyone of surviving the war.

The Unspeakable stood beside Harry, studying the mirror. Only a faint outline of his graven, bearded face could be seen under the black cowl he wore.

"I always wondered how long it'd take you to find your way here."

Harry scoffed. "Why?" The effect of others' mystiques was almost completely lost on him. He had associated with enough cloaked cryptics that he was entirely at ease when conversing with them.

"People such as yourself feel a most unusual attraction to the room. It's most curious," Croaker said enthusiastically. "We've discarded theory after theory regarding the matter. I personally thought it had to do with brain waves. So, what do you see?"

Harry's eyes were fixed on the mirror, studying what appeared to be a cairn in the center of the plateau, supporting an orb.

"I see a watchtower," he said slowly. "It's built into a great hill, overlooking a great road. It's twilight, neither day nor night. The sun's setting, and the shadows seem to be wrestling for control. I don't know what or where it is." _Only that there are no Death Eaters. No Voldemort. No prophecy. Peace. _

"How… interesting. It can be interpreted as a great many things."

Harry ignored the comment. "And you?"

Croaker stared into the mirror with a strange, undecipherable expression on his face. "I see you _dead."_

The Unspeakable whirled around; there was a screech of metal and a glint of steel as he lunged forward. Harry reacted instantly, seizing Croaker by the wrist in an iron grip, the tip of the dagger falling short of his stomach.

His astonished gaze met Croaker's hardened, bloodthirsty one. "Man, what the hell!" he shouted.

He released the Unspeakable, folding himself at the waist as the dagger extended to twice its original length. Skittering backwards, he drew his wand from its holster, raising it. Croaker calmly slid the dagger into it's sheathe and drew his own wand. He had taken the opportunity for the surprise kill and had squandered it.

"If you die, then the Dark Lord wins. So many sided with you, and died in an endless war for it. Not I."

Harry's mind was awhirl. If Croaker had turned, then the Department of Mysteries had been infiltrated for gods knew how long. Croaker wouldn't have made his move until he could funnel the most valuable secrets and projects to Voldemort. The Ministry was dead on its feet.

"Aren't there binding oaths you have to take to prevent this sort of thing?" Harry exclaimed. "I thought they'd learn after Rookwood's defection!"

"_Spiculum! _We're Unspeakables. Nothing is an obstacle for long."

Harry dived underneath the deadly fiery bolt of magic, performing a slashing motion horizontally as the Neck-Ripping Curse splattered against the wall behind him.

"_Verberovox!" _Electricity crackled through the air as a lightning whip lashed towards Croaker as he landed on the ground.

Croaker nimbly darted aside as the Lightning Whip crackled towards him, but not quite nimbly enough to avoid singeing his black cloak. He resumed his dueling stance, wand aimed pointedly at Harry. He looked sinister, sunken, shining eyes glittering with malice fixed on him as Harry calmly climbed to his feet.

Harry eyed Croaker warily, wand held loosely at his side. Fully-trained Unspeakables were dangerous on principle, so their leader was doubly so, as he had so far vindicated.

"That's not how it works," Harry said quietly. "Betrayal has never been the answer."

"Oh, I know better than anyone," Croaker answered.

"_Scythios!" _

"_Arresto Momentum!" _

A shimmer of silver was all that was visible as a whirling dervish rapidly crossed the distance between them. It spun too quickly for either of the combatants to determine what it was, until Harry's charm halted it inches before it reached him. A sickle quivered as it strained against the invisible force suspending it in the air.

"_Repellum!"_

The Momentum Suspension Charm expired under the pressure of the Banisher, and the deadly sickle broke through Harry's makeshift shield, flying at twice its original speed towards Harry's vulnerable throat. Harry threw himself into a sidelong roll. The magical sicklepaused above him dramatically, before prompting changing course and diving at him. Harry scrambled away, cursing as it pinned the hem of his robes to the floor, firing curses indiscriminately.

Croaker ignored the hastily-aimed spells, side-stepping them thoughtlessly as he launched his own volley.

"_Extundo! Invalidus! Suffocoum!" _

A hand met the stone floor forcefully. Harry propelled himself upright as his wand frantically weaved in all the motions of the countercurses, gasping as the overflow of the Strike, Crippling, and Suffocating Spells smashed against his ribs, numbed his wand arm, and stole his breath respectively.

He gritted his teeth, snarling as he ripped his robes free of the sickle immobilizing him.

"_Accio!" _

"_Accio!"_

Both duelists made an ungainly stutter-step forward, arms flailing as they attempted to keep balance. Struggling against the inexorable force pulling at him, Harry was dragged forward with increasing speed, as was Croaker. The Summoning Charm they simultaneously invoked was pulling them together, and Harry prepared himself for the collision that was soon to occur.

Harry blanched as the dagger reappeared. Croaker grinned triumphantly as he thrust his dagger forward at his midriff, poised to impale him within a second. They met in front of the Mirror of Erised. Harry's reflexes saved him yet again as he raised his wand.

"_Arcessio!" _

The energy he had invested in the Summoning Charm was abruptly converted into another kinetic-based spell. Croaker grunted as the spell took hold of him, the dagger grazing Harry's robes, and was violently flung away before it could penetrate.

Croaker's cloak fluttered as he generated a gust of wind that caught him before he impacted against the entrance and gently set him on his feet.

Harry watched the Unspeakable carefully. Croaker blocked the doorway, and thus his options were limited. He could not use any Destructive-Class curses, lest the doorway collapse and trap him inside. Croaker smiled wanly, and negligently flicked his wrist.

It took a split second for Harry to realize that his adversary hadn't moved the hand holding his wand, which meant-

"_Contegorum!"_

Prodigious though his dueling skills were, there were other hardened Aurors and Unspeakables with more experience than he and were fully capable of besting him on occasion.

His shielding skills, however, were incomparable. A brilliant white light blossomed outwards from his wand, forming a nearly solid dome that interposed itself between him and the thrown dagger. Harry braced himself for the impact, grimacing as the dagger was splintered tip-first, sending tremors down his wand arm. Even as the finely carved hilt was ground into fine, powdered dust, he could only feel horror as he heard the triumphantly roared "_Avada Kedavra!"_

The dome protecting him was cloven in twine as the emerald herald of death lanced through his flawless shield, rendering it useless. The Killing Curse was unblockable.

He was blown off his feet, and as the life ebbed from his body, his mind barely registered the glass of the mirror behind him shattering against the body thrown into it. His lips released a final sigh as his back met the ground, and his eyes were closed to the world.

Harry was dead to his Earth, but not to another.


	2. Amon Sûl

**The Serpent of the South  
By **Melnivone_  
_**A Harry Potter **&** Lord of the Rings Crossover**

* * *

**F**or a golden moment, you believe you had finally breathed your last. You had after all taken a fully-powered Killing Curse directly to the chest, leaving no margin for survival. You were unprotected, neglecting to wear either your Auror or Unspeakable battle robes.

Your feel neither sadness nor anger, only a profound weariness that began to lift from your shoulders. Your closest friends preceded you in meeting death, and now you might have a chance to meet them once again. There is a vague wave of guilt at leaving the Ministry alone to defend Britain against Voldemort. It is promptly dispelled. You went down fighting, after giving the last years of your life to the war and ultimately your life itself. Another prophecy would be made, bestowing the mantle of Chosen One on some other hapless boy.

The world will do without Harry Potter.

Images flash by in your mind. Proud Aurors succumbing to curses from all directions, locked in battle against Death Eaters that were far more numerous than they. Families grieving in the aftermath of a raid on Diagon Alley.

Derisive laughter rings in your ears.

Who are we kidding?

In all honesty, you hadn't given much thought to what the afterlife might be like, but assumed that your arrival might be hailed by a heavenly choir, or at least you would wake up in a feathery mattress to the tearful welcomes of his parents, not on the uncomfortable ground.

Your glasses had been broken beyond repair in a recent battle. In its aftermath you underwent a ritual to restore your vision and never bothered with them again.

You are disappointed - this is not the afterlife, not by any stretch of the imagination. But should you be? Your heart's desire is no longer to see your beloved Lily and James. Your fondest wish might have been fulfilled after all.

You finally do the sensible thing and open your eyes.

* * *

**Chapter II**: Amon Sûl

* * *

**H**e was enclosed within a barren room, devoid of any furniture. He blinked to clear his vision and met the frank stare of another man seated cross-logged across from him, on the other side of a small fire. Blankly, he searched his memory for any loved one for dear friend that might have met, but could not for the life of him attach a name to that grizzled face.

The middle-aged man was clad in russet garb, and was armed to the teeth. A sword hung at his side, a sheathed longknife hanging at his other hip, and a bow and quiver were slung over his shoulder. His facial features were distinctive, light beard, dark eyes and scraggly brown hair. His expression was stony, clearly the face of an interrogator.

Obviously, either heaven was a more complex establishment than he had thought, or he had, once again, survived.

Being simultaneously killed and thrown through a magical mirror appeared to have adverse effects. The mirror had shown him what he had desired most, a glimpse into a world where he could belong. By breaking it, had he in fact been thrown into that world? He was drawn out of his musings as the man seated across the fire addressed him sharply.

"You were found unconscious on the Great East Road during the dusk, abnormally pale but otherwise appearing unharmed. After a patrol searched your person for weaponry, you were brought here. You are not a Ranger assigned to defending the Shire, nor Bree; that much is clear. Explain who you are, your occupation, and where your allegiance lies. I am needed elsewhere, so be swift," the man commanded in a tone that brooked no tolerance for any hesitance or stalling.

Where to begin?

Never had he encountered such a blatantly warlike personage. Harry easily read the mistrustful expression. One thing he had learned about dealing with Muggles was that if you were different, they would show deference, at least until you left their presence. It was time to see whether that fact of live was universal or not.

A ghost of a smile curved Harry's lips.

"My occupation is wizardry."

A disbelieving, though nonetheless polite, eyebrow was raised. "Care to demonstrate?"

Harry shrugged, and glanced around, spotting his wand lying beside him. Raising it, he aimed it at his interrogator.

"_Accio sword." _

There was a screech of metal as the sword left its sheathe and soared through the heart of the fire to rest across Harry's knees. He winced at the embers that showered his knees. He lightly took the sword by the hilt and laid it on the ground in front of him.

The man blinked in surprise, but otherwise gave no outward reaction to the blatantly casual display of magic. Harry, stirred uneasily under his unblinking gaze, and made a show of staring at the sword, watching the reflection of the flames dance along its length. He surprisingly felt a tinge of weariness at casting the simple Summoning Charm. He was alarmed at the relevation. Had surviving the Killing Curse cost him more than he had first thought?

"Are you familiar with its use?"

Harry stared at the weapon ponderingly. It was not as bejeweled or as elaborate as Gryffindor's sword, but its blade shone just as brilliantly, proof of its owner's diligent care of it. Hardly noticeable notches left no room for doubt that it had seen its share of battles.

"To some extent," he responded. "I've little experience dueling with trained swordsmen. Magic is much more efficient with dealing with enemies, given how easily people unable to use it are deprived of their weapons."

Smiling, he tossed the sword over the fire again. The man caught it by the hilt and sheathed it, looking perhaps the slightest bit unnerved by his answer.

"You appear much… younger than your colleagues, though my dealings with your kind are admittedly limited. Forgive me if you perceived the actions of my men taken by my order a transgression."

Harry was lost. He could only assume there were other wizards in existence wherever he was, and that they were much older.

It seemed to be working in his favor, so he did not bother making his confusion known.

"Who are you?"

"I am Arvedui, Chieftain of the Dunedain. I and my kinsmen are charged with the protection of the southernmost region of the kingdom of Arnor, of which I am King, Eriador. This watchtower, Weathertop, is a component in a network of fortifications in the Weather Hills. An evil has risen to the east, over the river flowing from Angmar, commanding legions of orcs, and has undertaken an invasion. The resistance was forced back to this stronghold, where we await them."

Harry nodded, processing the information carefully. "Pardon my blaiseness, but you hardly seem a king in appearance."

Arvedui shrugged indifferently. "I came here to inspect the outpost accompanied by a company of guards, and you can imagine that I did not don the royal regalia. My arrival coincided with the discovery that the enemy was moving. I chose to stay and reinforce the garrison, which would be much fewer in number otherwise. There was no time to do much other than to organize the defense of the hills and for more reinforcements to arrive. There is truth in your words. However, what if your observation held merit and that I might actually be the king! In fact, I might be his decoy, and you would never know."

Harry merely smiled back. The moment their eyes had met had been enough for him to determine his identity. The indispensability of Legilimency was yet another immutable rule of the universe. There was no deception here. A pity he could not delve more deeply into his mind and search for information regarding this world. Aurors read the minds of denizens whenever they were in a different environment, but now the knowledge gap was too wide. He was in a different _world_. Perhaps later he could find someone in private and learn all he needed to know.

A movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention away from the questioner. A similarly dressed man stood at the open doorway, the sky outlining his back, sharp eyes casting a cursory glance at him before moving to his companion.

"The enemy vanguard has arrived. Smaller groups were roving through the trees on either side of the road, forcing back the scouting party before they could determine if they were followed by the main host."

"If the main host marches, then they have deliberately hung back so that our scouts could not see past the vanguard. Many enemies can be overcome, many enemies under the command of an intelligent general are less likely to be," the questioner said musingly as he rose, kicking dirt into the fire to smother it. "Give the signal for Beregon's troops to prepare for sortie."

"Twill be done sire." The man inclined his head, turned on his heel, disappearing from view.

Harry followed the apparent leader of the soldiers as they left the room, feeling a slight anxiety build as they walked down a flight of steps, turning the corner to a circular contour.

Several bowmen stood along the wall of the uppermost level, overlooking the road. Arvedui silently stopped behind them. Harry hesitantly followed his gaze.

His throat constricted as he distinguished the approaching mass of black bodies from the gloom. They were ugly creatures, no taller than five feet, with loping, hunched bodies that were less broad than he had been expected. They wielded crude facsimiles of swords, axes, pikes, and other melee weapons he couldn't identify that lacked the refinement of human-crafted weapons, and wore spiked helms on their heads and small bucklers on their arms.

They covered the width of the entire road, marching twenty abreast. From his vantage point, Harry could see that their ranks were nearly twenty deep.

"Are those the orcs you spoke of?" he found himself asking faintly.

"No, actually. They are goblins. They breed far quicker than we can hope to slay them," Arvedui answered resentfully. "The goblins attack foremost for no other reason than to die, and to take as many defenders as they can with them. Fodder, if you will. If the main host comes, you will see more orcs than you will care to see in your lifetime," Arvedui raised his voice. "Abandon all levels above the northward when they reach the fortifications; your retreat mustn't be cut off. Until then, pick them off as they come."

The Dunedain murmured their assent, and Harry quickened his pace to keep up with Arvedui. The contour winded around the entire tower like a stone serpent wrapped around a spire, steadily declining until it reached the ground. Other groups of archers were stationed along the entire length of the watchtower facing the road.

The path finally ended as they reached a clearing at the base of the tower, where a grim-looking Ranger awaited them. Harry noted that he looked a tad shadier than the others as if he regularly consorted among more unsavory characters.

"Is the Bree contingent in position?"

"Yes Captain. My men have secured the road to the Weatherheight. The outpost is prepared for battle should we fall here."

"Pray that we don't."

With a curt nod, the Ranger donned a hood, reinforcing his shady appearance, and departed.

"Who is he?"

"My son," Arvedui said simply.

"Oh," Harry stuttered, taken aback. "You… uh, look very young to be a father."

"My people are long-lived."

Arvedui said nothing more.

The clearing was defined by tall wooden walls supported by thick buttresses forming a cordon across the road, leaving only a small opening through which travelers might pass. Opposite that opening was a sturdy draw-gate constructed into the fortifications, but was currently heavily barricaded.

"Is that strategically sound?" Harry inquired. "It'll block the enemy to be sure, but at the cost of your own retreat."

"There is another path," Arvedui spoke. "that the Dunedain from Bree guard. They will secure our retreat. The wilderness gives no passage, and thus the enemy will be forced to take the path which will lead to the Weatherheight outpost, where they will have to fight us again to proceed any further."

"Ah."

Barrels propped along the wall contained long spears and sheaves of arrows, and a company of over a hundred Rangers milled about, divided into two groups on either side of the opening. Outside of the protection of the wall, another company was gathered, forming a living blockade of russet green and swords.

Over their heads, Harry could see the leading line of goblins. The creatures were gaining speed, and jeered in a guttural language, weapons waving wildly in the air.

"They will soon reach the range of our bows."

No sooner had Arvedui off-handedly made the remark did the twang of bows and whistling of arrows signal the start of the battle. The goblins' cajoling quickly turned into shrieks of terror and pain as the volley of arrows fell among them. The leading ranks, which were explicitly targeted by the expert bowmen above, were thrown into disarray. Harry could barely restrain his excitement as helmeted heads went down, and the hundreds of attackers began to thin.

An answering bombardment came from either side of the road. From all directions, black blots rose rapidly above the copse of trees concealing the hidden archers, a massive wave of arrows that briefly darkened the already murky skies. Crackles rent the air as the arrowheads snapped against the stone structure of the watchtower.

Harry raised both arms above himself to shield his head from the countless halves of snapped arrows that showered him. Arvedui looked undeterred even as an iron arrowhead grazed his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood from the abrasion.

"Fire at will!" he roared.

The dread in the pit of Harry's stomach gained substance as the responding fire became noticeably sporadic.

There was a shrill series of delighted screams as the goblins regained their confidence. The metaphorical dam broke, and the black tide swept towards the company of Dunedain, unheeding to the pained shrieks of the wounded comrades they trampled beneath their feet. Prepared, the swordsmen stepped into the onrushing attackers, bringing their swords down in a descending guillotine of flashing steel, decimating the leading line.

The goblins pressed against them. The line of warriors held; companions at their back moving forward to replace any that had fallen. They held firm, utilizing the reach of their longer and more durable swords to create a space between the bodies of russet and black that any goblin that dared to cross would be shredded to ribbons.

The whistling in the air signaled another volley from the hidden archers. As if breaking from a spell, the Dunedain inside the clearing leapt into action, pressing their backs to the wall. Arvedui whirled around, seizing him by the arm, and dragged him up a flight of steps into an open room in the base of the tower.

Harry detached himself from the Ranger and threw himself to the side of the open doorway. An instant later, the stone pressed to his back rattled under the impact of the volley, and the wooden floor in front of the entryway became carpeted with deeply embedded arrows. Each shaft was longer than his entire arm. Harry's mouth became dry.

The rattling ceased, and he shakily swept through the thicket of arrows. Arvedui followed resolutely, sword naked in his grasp.

The Dunedain had weathered the assault of the goblins, but their respite was not to last. As the last of the goblins were killed off, another, more numerous force came into view, emerging from the forestry. The Dunedain, supporting their wounded and dragging their dead, poured through the opening in the wall, wading through the snapped wood littering the ground.

The orcs were taller, and bulkier in comparison to their goblin cousins, as well as more deadly. They wielded longer swords, and more wicked axes, and long pikes formed a thicket above their heads. Their legs were squat and staunch; their bodies bent forward, their low center of gravity supporting the huge wooden shields they wore. None of them showed the slightest reluctance to tread the road paved with the bodies of the ill-fated vanguard, and stalked towards the waiting defenders with a deadly purpose.

A small detachment of Rangers escorted their wounded to safety, leaving on horses while the rest of the company that had fought the goblins regrouped, taking their position a respectable distance from the opening. The orcs, sensing blood, picked up their pace, lowering their pikes.

The opening was narrow, forcing the tide of charging orcs into a trickle. They poured from the doorway, but never reached the formation of Rangers they were making for.

The other company of Dunedain kept in reserve, leapt from their places along the wall to strike the suddenly overmatched throng of orcs. The orcs performed a rapid dual turnabout, shields turning outwards to protect from the sidelong attacks.

Then, the remaining warriors of the first company surged forward, slamming into the orcish flank. Beset upon on three sides, the orc formation began to waver, their shield wall crumbling as Rangers hacked into them.

There was another din of warcries as the orcs separated from the battle by the wooden partition forced their entry, the body of orcs grappling with the Rangers inside the clearing expanding as reinforcements streamed in.

The inner cordon of Rangers snapped under the great pressure. Harry tightened his grip on his wand as the lines of Dunedain separating him from the ravening orcs began buckling as they struggled valiantly to contain the orcs amidst the chilling howls of bloodlust. The moment of truth was coming, and he hoped fervently that his magic had recovered enough so that he could live past it.

Finally, the green lines parted as the orcs burst outwards. Three Rangers attempted to prevent them from reaching the wizard and their chieftain, but were hewn down by the black wedge. Arvedui burst into action, charging down the steps. The nearest orc met his challenge, lunging with its pike.

Skillfully sidestepping the thrust, Arvedui dealt a blow that glanced off its shield, then whirled around rapidly with a swing that decapitated it's unprotected head. Kicking its headless corpse into the onrushing mass, he leapt backwards, brandishing his sword, fencing with three orcs simultaneously.

"_Captiscindo!" _Harry shouted, throwing a grey beam from his perch atop the steps into the raging black mass below.

It was impossible to miss. A misshapen head twisted off its neck, hit by his Beheading Curse that disappeared into the crowd.

The tumult ground to a halt, shocked faces staring at him. His stomach clenched nervously, and he raised his wand again.

"_Incendio!"_

The recipient of the Incinerator was consumed by the flash-fire, and the flames leapt from orc to orc. They shrieked, bodies flailing as they were immolated.

Orcs appeared to be flammable.

The spell reignited the furious combat. An entire group of orcs broke free of the melee, rushing towards him.

"_Spiculum Mortis!" _

A long obsidian spear materialized in front of him, and was launched at the charging crowd. The orcs towards which it was aimed moved its shield in front of itself, but it was a futile effort. The deadly spear penetrated the wooden layer separating it from its target, and impaled the orc. The force with which it was driven into the orc was such that it lifted it off its feet, and spitted the unsuspecting orc behind it, their blood running down the length of the shaft.

Summoning the conjuration back to him, Harry lowered the spear as the next attacker brought down a huge battleaxe on his weapon. The shaft shivered as the spear clanged against the ground. Dislodging the weapon from the axe, Harry spun, bringing it for a sweeping blow towards its midsection.

The orc shifted its foot so that the spearhead missed, digging into the ground between its legs. Gritting his teeth, Harry threw his weight sideways, the shaft smashing into its knee. The orc lost its footing, and went down howling. Triumphant, Harry poised the spear for an overhead strike, and sank its tip into its jugular, ignoring the spray of black blood.

A jarring blow forced him backwards as another spearfighter engaged him next. Harry shifted his grip so that he held the shaft horizontally, bringing it down to meet the thrust of his opponent, forcing it towards the ground. The orc snarled venomously, and then with an enormous heave lifted its spear into the air, hoisting Harry above its head.

Taking advantage of his airborne position, Harry slashed at its undefended back with the spear, scoring a direct blow and sending the orc crumpling. He landed with a stumble. Once he had regained his balance, the volume rose with an uproar.

"The Black Captain comes!"

Nightfall had arrived, and a chill seemed to befall all present. Harry swallowed as images of a pleading woman, a dark shape, and a flash of green light flitted through his mind. Beyond the wooden entryway, the orcs amassed outside had parted to form a path for a rider. The man – if man it was – was mounted atop a midnight black steed. Donned in dark attire, it wore an iron crown atop its hooded head.

It gave a low, menacing hiss, and the cacophony of steel upon steel died away as the vigor and determination of all that heard it, orc and human alike, slipped through their slackened fingers. The chieftain, evidently the most strong-willed among his people, was first to break free of the spell the creature had weaved.

"Retreat!" Arvedui shouted.

The ensuing battle caused by the order was bereft of any organization. The Dunedain madly fought their way free, only loosely holding their formation in their bid for escape. They forced their way around the circumference of the tower.

Harry looked wildly for a path to escape, but both passages were cut off by a sea of orcs. Leering, pikes lowered, the orcs slowly closed in on him. Left with no other choice, he turned tail and reentered the room he had taken refuge from the arrow volley earlier. He whirled around, casting his eyes over the swarm. Seeing no allies that his next curse might hurt, he cast it without any hesitation.

"_Everbero!"_

The entire party of orcs crowding the doorway was cleared from the opening, their shattered bodies propelled over the heads of their companions climbing the steps to shower the sea of black behind them.

The dread in his stomach was amplified tenfold as the Witch-King climbed the steps in all its glory, slowly drawing a long, black sword. The creature - for Harry was certain that it was beyond mortal men - was ancient. The very aura permeating from it bespoke of an age that preceeded anything in the world. His wand arm trembled, and Harry desperately tried to clear his mind, casting the charm in an effort to expel the despair enshrouding his thoughts.

"_Expecto Patronum!"_

The Witch-King gave pause as the silver stag, shining brilliantly, charged it. Then, it gave a horrible shriek that plummeted the temperature. Harry clutched his ears, and his Patronus slowed its charge, its luminous form beginning to lose its vibrancy, as if the sheer volume of the hate-laden shriek had weakened it. Harry watched in horror as the Witch-King raised its black sword over its crowned head, and brought it crashing down, the blade parting the antlered head of his Patronus from its body. The whispish remnants of the stag dissipated into a silver mist that dissipeared entirely as the Witch-King strode through it, casually sweeping it aside.

Frantically, Harry glanced around the room. Wagons lined the walls, their contents hidden under blankets, but there was no exit, no door or window through which he could escape.

If there was no path of escape, Harry would make one.

"_Reducto!" _

He dashed through the fissure created by his Reductor Curse, mingling with the stream of russet as the Dunedain ran through the meadow. Further in the distance, he could see torchfire marking the locations of another troop of Rangers from Bree. He stopped panting as he found Arvedui, standing to the side of the path.

The chieftain had unslung his bow, and was fingering an arrow.

"What are you waiting for?" Harry questioned breathlessly.

The orcs were swarming around the tower, and would be upon them in moments.

Arvedui gave no answer, and took a fleeing Ranger aside, confiscating the man's torch. Setting the arrow alight, he calmly strung it.

Harry flinched slightly as Arvedui released the arrow with a twang, following its flight path with his eyes. It flew with perfect accuracy into the aperture Harry had created with the Reductor Curse, and hit one of the wagons littering the room's interior dead-center.

The resulting explosion was defeaning. The wagon, which must have contained explosives, detonated, setting off a chain reaction. The foundation of the tower imploded, stone fragments blasting outwards through the rank and file of the unsuspecting orcs with devastating effect, creating a whirling vortex of fire that consumed all those around it. The rest of the watchtower teetered uncertainly, before toppling across the road, landing between the wooden partitions.

Harry was subjected to a chilling sense of déjà vu as the stones from the uppermost portion of the tower landed on the ground, forming the ring he had seen in the mirror. Vaguely wondering where these seemingly primitive warriors had gotten their hands on explosives apparently every bit as effective as C2, he soon got his answer.

Small burning blots shot into the air, whistling, before bursting in a magnificent display of light. Crackles rent the night, and countless sparks illuminated the darkness. The Rangers and orcs alike ceased their movements, staring entranced at the obscenely festive fireworks.

The stupor was broken as a flaming figure stalked through the inferno that was the remains of the tower. The chill and dread iconic of Dementors reasserted itself. The orcs followed their leader, bolstered by the miasma instead of hindered by it, emerging from the flames.

Arvedui watched their advance impassively, before clearing his throat.

"Now we run."

The imperturbable chieftain broke into a run after his retreating men. Harry wasted no time, shooting hexes over his shoulder to slow their advance as he ran.

A beacon was burning brightly at the peak of another watchtower in the distance. Harry jumped as a spear thudded in front of him. Wheeling around it, he quickened his pace, conjuring an assortment of vipers and asps, ordering them to cover his retreat. The serpents slithered into the meadow on either side of the path, ready to occupy the orcs when they arrived.

The screams that broke out a few minutes afterwards were extremely gratifying. Bolstered by his small victory, he continued running, mind shifting to the thoughtless state that it reverted to whenever he focused completely on a goal.

He slowed as he reached the wooden barricade. The opening was there, resembling the watchtower all over again. He strode through into the clearing, where the Dunedain had gathered. They had taken their previous positions, standing on either side of the opening, and thus he was unhindered as he approached Arvedui, who was heatedly arguing with the Ranger he recognized at the chieftain's son.

Arvedui abruptly shut up. His son fell silent as well, glancing at Harry contemplatively.

"What's happened?" Harry asked resignedly.

Arvedui grimaced. "You have been invaluable, but there is one service you must render, or all of this has been for naught."

"The _palantir _was housed at Weathertop," the other Ranger broke in, "A party was dispatched to bring it here before the battle commenced, but they have not yet arrived. The only explanation is that they were waylaid by the enemy, who had somehow infiltrated a force between the towers to intercept them. It is crucial we retrieve it."

"The Witch-King and his host will be upon us soon," Arvedui continued. "And all opportunity for retrieval will be lost. Could you help us?"

"Describe this palantir."

"It is an orb, with a smooth, crystalline surface."

Harry remembered the orb nestled comfortably atop the cairn. "An orb. Crystal clear," he nodded.

Arvedui lowered his voice.

"I think you are young. Your kind appear far older, I know not what it means. I would send a veteran, but no mortal man can survive the host outside."

"Wizards are long-lived as well, but I am more mortal than you think."

Harry ignored the stares that followed him as he departed, mentally reeling off all ways to attempt the mission. Apparition was out of the question, he had to visualize his destination which limited his sphere of travel severely. He glanced up towards the wooden walls fortifying the site, and a smile began to form. Then, he was gone, and a Maltese falcon perched on the wall took flight.


	3. Red in Beak and Claw

**The Serpent of the South  
By **Melnivone_  
_**A Harry Potter **&** Lord of the Rings Crossover**

* * *

**T**he scent of freshly spilt blood races scorch the slits of your nostrils. The enticing promise of a meal is carried by the winds to the furthest corners of the region, attracting flocks of crows to the battlefield. This is the closest you have ever been to them. They are barely visible amidst the evening darkness, soaring over the marching ranks of the Witch King's host in favor for the countless that lay slain in the short but furiously fought battle.

You are the single avian creature that is not a carrion bird, gliding among the crows with superior speed and more _conviction_ laden in every flag of your wings. Your Animagus form is a Maltese falcon. You won it through stolen hours spanning years. Whenever you were not trudging through burning fields, kneeling at a headstone, or lurking in the dark awaiting unsuspecting Death Eaters. you fought for your feathers and talons. When those with a will less iron than your own would have wallowed in their exhaustion, you worked tirelessly. James and Sirius would have beamed in pride at his accomplishment, Remus would congratulate you for the dedication it had taken.

You make a point of flying higher than the hurtling shapes of crows that dove towards the banquet below. They do not care a whit, shameless creatures that they are. You don't either, your winged cousins are beneath your notice.

You are a prideful bird of_ prey_, not of corpses.

* * *

**Chapter III: Red in Beak and Claw  


* * *

**

**H**is eyes were keener now than they had been at any point of his life. Even the darkness of night could not impede his sight. A natural falcon would have difficulty, but not he. The night vision ritual affecting only his Animagus form was one of the handful he had ever dared to attempt.

Harry would never have thought that the fire ignited by Arvedui was capable of the destruction that he had witnessed. It was only a speckle, though its small appearance was belied by its brightness, illuminating the creeping silhouettes of orcs rushing past.

Anxiety weighed heavy on his chest, even as Zephyr bore him weightlessly aloft. The new world in which he found himself was already turning on its axis for the worst. The flow of orcs rendered visible by the fire was only the slightest fraction of the total forces commanded by the Black Captain that had so easily sapped the fighting spirit of the Dunedain and shaken his nerves.

Dismissing the thought from his head, Harry focused on the task at hand. The palantir must return to the hands of its keepers, lest the Enemy gain another advantage over the Dunedain.

Wheeling off, Harry propelled his diminutive feathered body downwards, breaking free of the current and climbing to another gust of wind, driven by a sense of purpose to make his descent faster than he had ever done so before.

He caught sight of the carcass of a horse lying on one of the winding paths leading to the south of the meadow, and the body of its slain rider further along of the path. Skillfully he manipulated the currents, rapidly approaching the ground, before tucking in his wings and pulling into a dive.

The wind roared into his sensitive ears,and Harry unfurled his wings, using the air resistance to the utmost before reverting to his human form.

He absorbed the impact as he rolled; smoothly regaining his feet in a maneuver he had performed countless times before. He stood still for a moment, a few paces ahead of the dead horseman, as his gaze roved throughout the surroundings. The horseman had been riding desperately, but had not made it to the tree line at the end of the meadow, stricken by black darts that pierced his back.

The first of the party had fallen here. Wary, Harry set out, drawing his robes close around him to ward off the chill.

It was not long before he came across an orc lying spread-eagle on its back, a well-aimed arrow imbedded firmly in its chest, a look of confusion on its face. Harry blinked in surprise, feeling a sinking feeling in his gut. By experience he knew how taxing shooting from horseback was, it made the most sense that the fleeing Dunedain were now on foot. After all, how far could horses travel before fatigue overcame them?

Quickening his pace, laying his wand flat on his palm.

"_Point me, Palantir."_

The wand spun jerkily, completing a dozen rapid revolutions before it pointed determinedly south.

Harry suppressed a grimace. How far could the Dunedain have gotten before the orcs had finally forced a confrontation?

He broke into a run, driven by an urgency to recover the Palantir and to return to his besieged comrades before they were overrun.

A guttural warcry alerted him to the threat. Harry abruptly turned left towards the source of the voice, bringing his wand to bear. He allowed his right leg to collapse at the sight of the orc that leapt over the bank on the side of the path.

"_Expelliarmus!" _

The Disarmer intercepted the orc in mid-leap, blasting the black body back into the copse of the trees, the axe torn from its grip sailing overhead, narrowly missing him and thudding into the ground away.

Harry pushed himself onto his feet, and furiously tore the tomahawk out of the ground, scattering dirt in every direction and faced the bank from which the orc had assaulted him.

"_Accio orc!" _he bellowed.

Leaves were scattered as the orc hurtled towards him, arms flailing wildly. Harry, not quite confident of his aim with a throwing axe, terminated the Summoning Charm. The orc's flight ended and it sprawled in a heap several feet away from his position.

Harry strode towards the orc as it struggled to regain its bearings, lifting the tomahawk over his head. He placed a feet onto the orc's back as he reached it, established a firm footing, and brought his weapon crashing down. The blade crushed the hapless creature's head, smashing it like an overripe melon.

The orcs had left a rearguard, scant though it was, which left hope that the Palantir was near, and that the orcs were less numerous than he had feared. Rearguards typically were directly proportional to the number of the main force in classical warfare, as he learned in his training as an Auror. It was a concept that even the dullest of beings could not fail to grasp. That he had faced only a single orc gave him hope.

Choosing to leave the sullied weapon imbedded in the skull of its own wielder, Harry scoured the black blood from his attire with a quietly muttered Cleaning Charm.

He resumed the hunt.

He raced along, panting lightly, eyes constantly sweeping his surroundings for hidden enemies. The path was strewn with rotted leaves and twigs, implying that it was a road less traveled.

Until now.

He groaned in despair as he arrived at the scene of the Dunedain's last stand. Orcs had fallen as they advanced, brought down by arrows, but their numbers were such that it carried them to the position of the Dunedain, disproving his theory. Eight of the Rangers, their mounts at the end of their strength, stood their ground, and died for it, the bodies of twice as many orcs choking the path.

For a moment, he stood there, silent. For a moment, the brave new world revolved around him alone.

He took to the sky again, Maltese falcon hurtling through the air like a thunderbolt, sharp eyes anxiously searching the world below, processing it at an incredible rate.

Orcs, traveling alone, moved southward, blots that were dark even compared to the landscape. Harry realized that they must have been the injured ones, a shiver rippling his feathers, moving at differing paces after the band.

Orcs did not care for their own.

The realization hardened his mind. Even Death Eaters, the most inhuman class of humanity, fought for their brethren, even if it was induced by the knowledge that a captured comrade would likely divulge important information.

The falcon screeched its triumph as it spotted the great black wedge roving across the plain. Flaring his wings, Harry soared towards the oblivious band of orcs.

Giving an angry screech, he sank his outstretched talons into the vulnerable neck of an unsuspecting orc. Tightening his grip, he strove to lift the struggling orc into the air as he scanned the mass of black bodies, intending to drop the orc from a great height, desperate for a glimpse of the crystal orb he had come for, but was forced to release the dying creature, the attempt sorely sapping his strength. The lacerated orc was flung into the crowd, and Harry caught an upward draft, falcon body snatched away from the lunging thrusts of pikes and spears.

He prepared to make another run, but was forced to abandon the attempt as shafts were launched into the sky, coming dangerously close to piercing his wings. Like a starving buzzard, he hung above the orcs, beyond the range of their bows, venturing an enterprising endeavor to get closer. Each time, he was met with a volley of arrows.

This continued for some time. The persistent falcon skirted an imaginary boundary above them. If that boundary was crossed, arrows rose in a wave that the bird wisely flew away from, whereupon resumed its lurking.

Harry thought to continue baiting them, until their arrows were expended, but eventually the orcs caught onto his tactic, and regulated their usage of their precious missiles, their best marksmen firing at him whenever he descended. He sensed the beginnings of a shortage, but his strength would fail him before the last of the arrows would disappear into the night sky.

Changing his strategy, Harry returned to the ground, several hundred feet behind the orcs. His supernatural transformation from animal to human must have been witnessed, for their pace quickened almost imperceptibly.

"_Accio Palantir."_

There was a shriek of surprise, then raucous laughter, but no shining Spiritus Mundi answered his summons. Harry followed them.

A score of orcs broke off from the band, and approach him in two lines, spreading out to form a net with which to snare him.

_Rearguard – this is what it should have been, _Harry thought grimly.

No matter. He walked forward confidently.

"_Incendio alei," _he whispered.

The Layering Charm and the Incinerator worked in conjunction to emit a faint, vague glow from the tip of his wand.

"_Incendio alei."_

The glow grew stronger, gaining substance as it became a distinctive fiery orange.

"_Incendio alei." _

Still it brightened, until he resembled a phantom carrying a torch. The orcs recoiled briefly at the bright light, but recovered, resuming their march, unsuspecting of their impending doom.

Smiling, Harry released his triple-layered Incinerator.

A massive flume of fire sprang from the ground, shriveling and charring the vegetation. Harry conjured a gust of wind, fanning its fury. It reacted explosively, surging forward too quickly to be avoided. The orcs broke up their formation in a panic, and turned tail, but were overtaken by the wall of fire, and were consumed in the conjured inferno.

Calmly, Harry stepped over the ashen remains of his twenty opponents, preceded by the wall of fire that lurched forwards, devouring the dry grass that fueled it, gaining speed as it gnawed at the retreating backs of the remaining orcs.

It warped his senses, became surreal as Harry fully settled into the familiar role of hunter. The orcs were fleeing en masse, flying before his wrath. He pursued them relentlessly, a slavering wolf seeking a lamb in a flock of bleating sheep.

His smile disappeared as he realized that the plain would soon end, and the orcs disappear into the woodlands that he had seen from above and scatter, significantly reducing the possibility of ever recovering the Palantir, and by extension, he would be unable to return to the Dunedain.

He considered returning without the Palantir. It wasn't a decision he relished making, but he kept to his hunt. He knew intimately how irreplaceable magical artifacts were. It was well worth the lives of hundreds of men, and even his own.

He leapt, pulling himself into the air with feathered wings. He hovered above, well out of range for the orcish archers, and pondered his next course of action. A viable strategy was to land n front of the band and conjuring another wall of magical fire, entrapping the orcs and burning them to ash.

The falcon uttered another irritated screech as it analyzed the plan and found the drawback. The Palantir's magical nature would likely protect it from destruction, but its potency could be damaged by the fire.

The bird hung there in consternation, flying in an endless loop. Finally, it made its decision, and reverted back to its human form -

A thousand feet in the air.

The wind howled, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut, thinking that perhaps the wisdom in making the decision was a bit lacking. His fist was clenched around his wand, refusing to let it be ripped away by the wind.

He opened his mouth, but his breath was already stolen. Desperate, he fell back to nonverbal magic, chanting the incantations in his mind.

Great streaks of light blasted out of the end of his wand, hurtling towards the mass of orcs below.

The force of impact of the curses was such that he was suspended in midair by the wave of pure residual magic. Then he was over, and he fell.

Another incantation whispered in his mind warped his senses, and he bizarrely slowed as the very matter around him contorted. His torso rose, and he landed gently on his feet.

Purging his mind of the magically-induced disorientation, he surveyed his handiwork. Craters sundered the site, created by the destructive charms he had cast from above. Surrounding them were the charred, battered corpses of at least fifty orcs. It was a charm engineered to damage organic matter rather than objects that were lethal to creatures with weaknesses to the light. Harry was, overall, impressed with himself. The spells were usually effective only against massed enemies such as Inferi in terms of cost-benefit, and he hadn't specialized in fighting the undead, so he had very few opportunities to cast that particular charm outside of practicing and mastering it.

There were still rules of combat to adhere to though, even when victory seemed to be his. Chief among them was "_Don't curse and stand there admiring the results, bitch!" _

Typical Mad-Eye Moody.

Too often though, the gritty, paranoid Auror was right. Harry was once again reminded as an orc lunged drunkenly at him from behind. He spun around, hand shooting out to catch the orc by the wrist. The abomination hissed at his vice-like grip, the knife in its grasp quivering as it struggled to free itself. It was badly burnt, but Harry could not distinguish the scorched skin from its natural black color. Silently, he twisted, and the orc screamed in pain as he pressed against it, sinking the blade into its stomach.

A movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention away from the dying orc. Harry turned to see an orc scampering away as quickly as it could, fleeing the carnage and the sorcerer that had rained death upon its brethren.

Orcs didn't care for their own.

Harry felt a rush of simmering rage at the thought. He realized now, that until then he had accredited orcs some humanity, but now was greeted with the reality of it.

Orcs were pure monsters. They weren't vampires or werewolves, there were no exceptions to the rule. Decency went against their very nature, the laws that defined them. He didn't care that fleeing from a dangerous opponent as himself was wise.

That orc was going to kick the bucket.

He was almost tempted to conjure a meteoric blast to vaporize the cowardly creature and scatter its atoms, but held his peace. It would not do to waste energy to slay a single orc, not when he had asserted himself dangerously close to the point of magical exhaustion.

Deliberately, he lifted his wand, pointing at the retreating back of the orc.

"_Accio sword."_

He waited for the many swords littering the crater-ridden site to answer his call. At least one lay in front of the orc, and would cut down the orc on its way to his hand.

He frowned in consternation when nothing happened.

"What..." he muttered under his breath.

He had used the very same charm to achieve the very same effect only hours before. His magic was still present, ready to be drawn from his core. Suddenly nervous, he shifted his focus onto specifying what type of sword he wanted to summon. Perhaps the mechanics of the new world had subtly changed his magic, narrowing the field of what he could do?

"_Accio knife!"_

Nothing. Harry looked around, but no knives were shooting towards him.

"God damn it_._"

It wasn't about the orc now, or any philosophy, it became a matter of pride.

A burst of energy revitalized him, and in a haze of rage he reeled off every variation of sword he knew. _Flamberge, cutlass, rapier -_

"_Accio Katana!"_

"Bloody hell!" Harry swore. Orcs didn't wield Japanese fucking katanas!

"_Accio scimitar!" _

Blood spurted as a chrome black sword – _a scimitar, apparently, _Harry thought dryly – sliced through the air, and both of the fleeing orcs' calves, severing both arteries.

"Yes!" Harry hissed, punching the air triumphantly, immensely pleased with himself.

The torso of the orc toppled, and Harry's momentary giddiness abruptly ended as a sphere fell out of its arms, slowly rolling to a stop. Grimly, he approached the palantir, heedless to the rapidly dying orc as he passed by.

He halted as he reached it, and stooped before it, examining it critically.

It was a curious thing.

The surface was crystalline, and Harry strained to identify what substance the palantir was made of. It radiated a soft golden glow inwardly, somehow more pure than the sun, and its faucets did not suffer the moonlight to pass into its core. Inside swirled an earthen mist, ever in motion, reminding him of a mild sandstorm he had witnessed in the Gobi Desert.

Slowly, he reached out and hesitantly laid his hand on it.

His hesitancy was justified, to his disadvantage.

Reacting to the contact, it revealed six other palantirs floating in an endless plane, sisters of the one he held in his hand. He was drawn towards one in particular by a faint living presence, lying dormant at the opposite end of one of six closed connections. Decisively, he willed that connection to open - thereby exposing him to what lay on the other side.

A strangled scream of wild pain tore its way out of his throat, defying his token attempt at suppressing it as his hand was seared beyond all endurance. He recoiled instinctively, but his palm and fingers adhered to the hellish thing, conducting waves of scalding heat from his hand to his arm. It brought him to his knees.

The swirling storm of the palantir suddenly parted, forced to the extremities of the orb. The soft golden glow thinned, but intensified into the very fires of the purgatory before revealing a monstrous eye, a black slit wreathed in flame.

The Eye locked gazes with him, and Harry strained against the foreigner that clawed at his vulnerable mind. It was a powerful presence, but he had enough experience with wraiths that he recognize its still formidable power was diminished, that it was only a shadow of its former self.

He finally reacted, the gates of his mind snapping shut, presenting only an impenetrable wall that the very sea would break upon. The shadow that had invaded his mind darted to and fro, dark tendrils brushing against sections of the defenses, applying pressure.

_I have broken impenetrable walls before, young Istar, _an omniscient voice pierced his mind, somehow bypassing his defenses and reverberating throughout his cranium, shaking the very foundations of his mind. Harry refused to concede any sign of weakness to the unimaginable agony. Mustering his mental reserves, he scavenged through memories, reliving them one after another. He compressed them like a fabric around his unwelcome guest, putting into practice an Occlumency technique. Undaunted, the presence churned through them.

There was only laughter.

Then it turned into an agonized shriek. Every Auror harbored a sleeper memory inside them, of what the Cruciatus in conjunction of other torture curses felt like, which only the most masterly Legilimencers could identify and avoid triggering. It deterred intrusions into the mind, and it succeeded.

He was in the real world again. He had not broken a sweat. He wasn't even short of breath.

He stared unblinkingly at his hand, eyes raking over the grimy but smooth skin unmarked by the phantom pain.

Tightening his mental defenses after reconstructing them, he stalked towards the once again innocent-looking artifact and placed his palm on it forcefully, broadcasting a challenge to the Eye, but he received no answer. The presence was gone, though its taint lingered.

"That was exciting," he muttered, shaken to the core.

His confidence that he would have triumphed over his distant adversary wavered. Leaving the darkness of his thoughts, he absentmindedly conjured a sheet of cloth, and wrapped the palantir in it.

He stood there at the crossroads. He knew what the Palantiri were now; Seeing-Stones that were connected by a network that allowed its masters to communicate, or contest their wills. He had entered the game, and had survived to fight the next match.

Somehow, the Enemy had breached that network.

He knew his mission with a painful clarity, though the mechanics of the palantiri still made him dizzy. He would have to safeguard the other masters of the palantiri, and excise whatever entity that had access to them. Perhaps he could even contact the others before they were taken by the Eye. He, a powerful wizard in his own right, had nearly lost. How would normal men fare, and how would their succumbing to the Eye's will impact the war?

"Arvedui. Show me the King."

The palantir responded docilely, the storm ending, the surface flaring, and gave an overhead view of a battlefield. Masses of Rangers were fighting on the road leading to the outpost, grinding against the black columns of orcs and goblins, the dread Black Captain unseen. The image centered on Arvedui, surrounded by a complement of Dunedain, shouting orders and directing the influx of reinforcements coming from behind the barricade of the outpost.

Harry smiled in relief. The Dunedian had launched a counterattack and seemed to be succeeding with the aid of a substantial amount of reinforcements.

He was needed. The palantiri were compromised and their masters were vulnerable to the predations of the Eye. He had to make haste to return to Arvedui and inform him of the danger.

Weary, he closed his eyes, and willed himself to persevere.

Once more the falcon took to the skies, the swirling globe safe within the grasp of the talons stained black with orcish blood.

The night only deepened.


	4. Announcement

Hey everyone, it's been a while, and I have an announcement to make...

So. I wrote this when I was much younger (I hadn't even gotten my driver's permit yet, to give you an idea), and as I got more comfortable with my writing, I felt I had too much baggage with this story. I had given Harry this very hackneyed and cliche, typically grimdark backstory, and eventually I felt very alienated from my own story. I couldn't write no matter how much I wanted to. Regarding _The Serpent of the South, _I have chosen to officially discontinue it, and will leave this up for a few weeks before taking it down.

I still have a deep and abiding love for Tolkien's writings. I've finished reading everything he ever wrote, including _The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrún,_ and have very fervently compiled **35,000 words' worth of notes, plotting, scenes, and general content**... **for a new story.** I thought I might as well bite the bullet and share it with you guys.

I have posted the first chapter of **_Mourneth for the Southron Lord. _**It's not quite a rewrite, though parts of what I had planned for _The Serpent of the South_ will be incorporated into the plot.

It will be dealing with _The Silmarillion_, at first. I hope you guys give it a chance, because the world prior to the Third Age is very beautiful.

Give the introductory chapter a read and let me know if you like it. I ask that if you still believe I can deliver a story worth telling, to support me by reviewing it and encouraging me like you have while I was writing _Serpent._ I can only give you my heartfelt thanks.

Sincerely,

en extase


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